Until I Fall Asleep
by Mockingtale
Summary: A forgotten stranger from Okita's past watches over him as he slowly wastes away. As he fades to the Underworld, his only company is a nameless woman he cannot remember. What price do the living pay to the dead?
1. Breeze

**_A/N: _**_Hello~ this is a very small, short project while I get over my writer's block for 'Sorcera Descent'. This is a drabble series with one chapter uploaded every few days. I've been trying to minimise my writing style lately, so please do tell me what you think :)_

* * *

The coughs shook him, like an earthquake shattering the wooden floor below him, just like that; for a few minutes- his world was splintered. As always, the blood that stained was too dark, and too eager to taunt ere he grabbed a handkerchief to his face.

If Okita were honest, it was the period post-episodes that truly shook him. His throat felt flayed, and his skin went cold, even though sweat dripped from his chin and slithered into his eyes. Suddenly, his world was righted again, as if the fits had never occurred; but he felt weak and pathetically helpless anyway.

Far away, in the corner of the room, metal glinted. His eyes shifted to the slit of blade peeking out from its sheath, there propped against the wall like a forgotten afterthought. The katana was a family heirloom, passed down from father to son within the bloodline of the Samurai Okita family.

It made him scoff. He wasn't a Samurai.

Samurai do not flee to the mountains seeking to escape an invisible enemy. Samurai do not curl into themselves while their lungs claw out of their throat. Samurai do not run, do not leave their precious ones behind, do not do not _go down this way_.

He wasn't a Samurai. He was just a dying man.

And he was a man who would pass from this world hating himself, hating everything, hating life, the Shinsengumi, the Shogunate, the Emperor, Chizuru, his sister, this place, his _failing, crippling body. _Was it fair? Now that he thought about it, perhaps it was simply karma for all the blood spilled on his hands. He knew he swung his blade without judgement, without sentiment; he was Isami Kondou's sword after all, and he always knew he would end up in hell. He knew the price he would pay, and he thought he didn't care. He _thought he didn't care._

Chizuru had wept over him when the illness progressively became worse. After all the pain he had caused her; taking her blood when he hungered as a Rasetsu, frightening her, acting recklessly without thought, she still clung to him. He had been lying on his futon, breathless while faint tremors shook him. He had joked about the inevitability of his passing. She didn't laugh. Instead, she had asked him, "What am I going to do once you're gone?"

The question was like a slap to the face, but his face had stilled and his eyes turned to stone.

He had smiled. "You go on without me."

That was what he wanted. He wanted Kondou-san to succeed. He wanted the Shinsengumi to come out on top. He wanted Chizuru to be happy and forget him, he wanted himself to just be turned over to the annals of time.

And now everyone went on without him. While he was stuck here. He sat up and sucked in a painful breath before struggling upwards and towards the porch. He didn't care if the sun pained him. He knew deep, deep inside that he was not going to recover from this, and he wanted to feel the wide open space of the outdoors anyway.

He lounged against the steps and tilted his head back. If he imagined harder, he could nearly feel Chizuru running her small fingers through his hair.


	2. Hum

**A/N:** _Wow! I'm… well, I'm glad people are actually reading and reviewing *scratches head*. Thank you!_

_Oh yay~ three day early update! That means the next one will be a three day late update . Dunno. I'll update the expected update dates on my bio by 24th Feb.  
__As you can tell, this was meant to be a drabble series before I stitched three chapters together. It has that dislocated feeling. Dunno. *shrugs?*_

* * *

He gasped as he opened his eyes. It was pitch dark, with only the silver moon hovering against the navy expanse. Crickets chirped. The cold breeze tousled his auburn hair and rattled his lungs. He got up.

His body ached.

He shut the door behind him_— _before his body gave way and he fell to the ground. Okita lay there, unmoving. His limbs were failing, and the cool surface of the wooden floor was comforting to his cheek. He didn't care anymore, couldn't care. The Shinsengumi's sword had eroded away, and what use is a blunt edge to its master?

He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, feeling the chilly air pour into his brittle lungs.

Time, it seemed, could not pass fast enough.

If there was anything Okita hated more, more than dying, and more than leaving everything behind, it was the long, bitter wait. He was never a patient man; impulsive, daring, even reckless. Souji Okita demanded, and he demanded _now_. Honestly, _really_, as he thought this, a bitter smile twisted his handsome face. The gods truly enjoyed fucking with him. He took in another breath; willing himself to stay calm when all he wanted to do was to scream and cry out and lash at everything and to burn this fucking house _down _and to- and to run to Kyoto with his blade at his hip and _cut down _each and _every _enemy Kondou-san had, because he had to. He _had to _before he passed. _He had to— _

He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. Unbidden, the memory of one of Chizuru's rare outbursts replayed in his head. He had been sitting upright in his futon, his head bowed. He couldn't tell what expression had been on his face, and he couldn't remember what he had said. But—

_No. No, you're wrong. It's not fair!_

Fair? This whole disaster? Was it really fair? To him, it was fair. Fair enough, more like. He had brutally murdered many people without thought: fathers, sons and whatever; or so some of his comrades had muttered beneath their breath. He was Kondou-san's _sword. _Faithful warrior or devoted murderer? Maybe both. He deserved this. He…

He was only twenty-four. For fuck's sake, was it fair? Souji Okita didn't know. Fair? A part of his mind yelled yes, but deep inside his heart, a shard pierced and with all the resolute yeses in the world, it could not dislodge that resounding '_no_'.

Perhaps he was being extremely selfish then; to resent a fate he very much earned. But was it wrong, to feel that way?

To _hate—_

There was a cold breath above him, sifting through his hair, before an icy hand stroked his head. His eyes shot open and he flung himself up. _Intruder?!_

In a split second, he prepared himself to lunge at the stranger. He didn't have the energy to punch, but he still had his wits about him and he could twist about and snap a neck—

Large, brown eyes looked up at him in boredom, framed by thick bangs of long dark hair. The moonlight shone through her translucent form, as if she was a half-faded reflection. Something dark and red glinted on her, in areas cast in shadow.

She blinked. Right eye first before the left.

Souji Okita could see the glint of his unfully sheathed blade _through _her.

And that was when he knew he was definitely going to hell.

* * *

He stirred the pot with a sigh. Cooking was never his forte. Apparently, according to all his fellow comrades in the Shinsengumi, Souji put way too much salt in his creations. In all honesty, he had no idea what they were talking about; because they tasted perfectly fine. However, he did admit to feeling slightly insulted during the incident back in the day when Hajime-san had gotten up to wash the gravy off his food_—_ and the rest had all followed. He had simply sat there, staring at his bowl, contemplating hard.

Before shrugging it off and getting up to follow all the same. Well, maybe he _did _put too much salt in the food. He had a unique taste, could they really blame him? Still, he had to resist chucking his still full bowl at Hijikata's face when the man made an offhanded comment.

Okita snorted. That stupid Demon. In the end however, he was the only man he trusted with the care of Chizuru.

He resisted the sudden urge to chuck the bowl in his hand at the wall.

The girl next to him shifted, her movements an airy sigh. She dwelled in the shade where firelight met shadow, and strangely, amber flames did not glitter in her brown eyes. She turned to him questioningly when he made the small noise, but he ignored her. The pot bubbled in the hearth and he plucked off the cover, crassly digging through the food with a ladle.

Another chuckle made its way past his lips as he tasted his own concoction. He still couldn't cook worth a damn.

The girl tilted her head childishly, her black hair gritted with something nameless falling over her left eye. He still didn't bother to look up, because he knew she didn't need to eat, but he asked her anyway as he lifted the ladle.

"Stew?"

She gave him an odd look. He shrugged noncommittally and ladled a portion into his bowl. She watched him curiously, her large brown eyes blinking slowly. They did not close in sync, so they looked as if she closed with her right eye before alternating with her left. Blink. Blink. Her kimono was in tatters, and the raw scratches on her face and body distracted from her cute loveliness. She tilted her head and propped her chin on her arms childishly. She was very small, and could pass as Chizuru's age.

"Still can't remember?" she asked. Even her voice was young, and hinted of girlishness.

He snorted and didn't bother to answer, greedily spooning the beef bits into his mouth. She moved closer as her face furrowed deeply in thought, watching him eat with an intense interest.

It had been so long. She had forgotten what food tasted like.

Slowly, she raised her eyes thoughtfully to the ceiling before tapping her chin. Something was on her mind, or had suddenly occurred to her. He glanced at her then, and her eyes dropped down to meet his questioning gaze.

She shrugged nonchalantly. It wasn't important.

The flames flickered over the marks left on her form. Dried red, streaks of earth; a dark congealed spot on her chest and an unearthly inhumanness in her movements. He shrugged after she did, lifting his spoon helplessly. Really, what could he do? he gestured.

She pouted and folded her arms before lying her chin once again on top of them, and watched the flames dance within the hearth. Behind her creeped some nameless shadow that always followed her wherever she went; as if she was at the entrance of a cave, and behind her yawned a long dark.

Or something like that. ish.

He scooped the last of the food into his mouth, licked the spoon like an eager boy and dumped the bowl and spoon by the side. He would clean them tomorrow. For now, as always, he leaned back on his arms as his legs kicked out, and he watched the fire with her. They danced wildly, elongating in ebbs and flows and chasing warmth into his body. His lungs itched, but he ignored them.

"Hmm…" he started, as he always did. "Himeko?"

She shook her head. Wrong.

"Mizuki?"

She shook her head again. Wrong.

"Amamiya?"

Wrong.

He scowled. "Seiko," he insisted. She shook her head again and lifted her brown eyes to him. They were blank and empty, but her mouth mimed emotions, and now they pulled into an expression of petulance.

Feelings are not privileged to the dead.

"You're tossing random names," she whined, and he nearly could believe it, even though her eyes remained strangely bereft. Night creeped, and anyway Souji Okita was too tired not to. "You're mean. You really can't remember me? I'm hurt."

He shrugged uncaringly. "It's been two weeks," he said plainly. "If I couldn't remember you then, I shouldn't be able remember you now." He turned back to stare into the flames. He wondered if he could speed up this tedious process by venturing out tomorrow to practice a few swings. Spend a few hours baking in the sun, maybe dig his blade through his own organs. His eyes flickered back to the girl briefly, wondering about the strange oddness of this situation. He also wondered why he even bothered.

And that was when he saw her smile at the corner of his eye. The first real genuine smile he had ever seen on her.

"You shouldn't," she agreed.

* * *

Morning twisted into noon. He strolled out into daylight. He didn't care.

Meanwhile, she lingered by the doorway in the darkness, her pale face its own moon against the blackness of the house. She watched him, bored. He rolled his eyes before another fit seized him. Dropping down to his knees, he pressed his hand against the red spewing out of his mouth. Pain wracked him, gripped his ribs and threatened to break them. He struggled against the tempting surrender, to drop face down and relinquish his control to the agony. Yet, just as quickly as it came, it eased away, and he was left sitting on the ground panting.

If his sickness was a person, Souji Okita wouldn't even bother with a sword. He'd just strangle him.

As he looked back behind, her brown eyes met his, and something tugged subtly at his memory, of a red-painted smile and innocent brown eyes.

_Chizuru?_

He blinked again, confused. She canted her head to the side, expectant.

No. Not Chizuru. Someone else… Perhaps simply a memory of another face. Like deja vu when a stranger walks past you, and you twist around to follow him or her, trying to recall who that person resembles_— _to place a face. She had brown eyes.

Yet, they weren't as wide as Chizuru's.

She smiled. It didn't look sad, or even happy. Or even a smile at all. It looked like a curve.

"Come back inside," she said idly. She sat neatly with her feet tucked beneath her, still and unmoving; and perfectly poised, like a trained geisha. "You're getting sunburn."

He heaved a sigh like a scolded child, stretched leisurely, before rebelliously plopping himself on the grassy floor and propping his hands behind his head.

She rolled her eyes and settled on the steps, where light met shadow. Red glinted in her hair, crusted within her locks. At the back, a crater opened to the remains of her melted brain. Her skull fragments clung to the opening like crystal gems or shattered glass, stark white against the thick, dried maroon.

Her head had been split open when she was raped against the cold, cobblestone streets of Kyoto. Even in death, it itched sometimes.

She heaved her own weary sigh and leaned against the pillar, humming a melody she once learned at her mother's knee. Sunlight wove itself into the auburn locks of the man in front of her, and blasted onto his face. He was handsome, with his eyes closed and his face chiseled with attractive youth. Just the right poetic age; at his prime, taken to the top notch before being dragged downwards to die. He must have been trying to look peaceful with his rusty copper hair splaying out, lashes brushing his cheek.

Instead, she could see that thoughts stampeded behind the skin of his closed eyelids.

She blinked again. Blink. Blink. And gave an hour before his skin would turn a raw sunburned red.

She tapped her fingers according to the slow beat and hummed. Behind, death tugged, and a cold void whispered; but for now, she was content to play the part of a forgotten memory.


	3. Mercy

_Special thanks to __**TK Grimm**__ for writing advice. It was really helpful! Also, thanks to my long-suffering friend, __**whimsyappletea**__ for beta-ing both this and my Vocaloid story(s). Lastly, I'd like to apologize for the ridiculously overdue update. I am really sorry for not reviewing or replying and just... generally dropping off planet Earth. I've been reeeaaaally busy and on a hiatus XD _

_You can find story statuses and my own online status in my profile :) [via links]_

_On another note, this short story is ending soon. It has 2 - 3 chapters to go… I'm planning (first time in my life actually sitting down and planning, ha) and writing a new Hakuouki story. It's a modern AU, and it'll be titled '**Mythomaniac**'. Hopefully it'll be good..._

_Hopefully..._

_And as always, constructive criticism is appreciated :)_

* * *

_On the subject of death, this story, while a poor tribute, is dedicated to Terry Pratchett, a man who made Death into his own. _

"There are times in life when people must know when not to let go. Balloons are designed to teach small children this"

— _Terry Pratchett_

* * *

"You're in love," she told him.

He stilled.

"Well," she back-pedalled. "Sort of, I mean." His eyes dragged up from the cup of tea to her face. She sat by the side— always by the side, with her hands folded demurely in her lap. Her face was emotionless, but not blank.

"And?" He replied. Challenge rose in his voice.

"Oh. I don't know." The girl paused. She had approached touchy territory, and while she was not apologetic, interest— false, perhaps— could be put aside. Her eyes darted to the ceramic cup. "How's the tea?"

He looked down at the murky contents of his cup with disgust.

"Terrible. Can't you help me out with the cooking stuff a little?"

She raised her eyebrows together with her hands. "What, because I'm a woman?" Placing her hands demurely in her lap once again, she said, "I'd love to. If I could actually touch something."

"You're touching the floor," he pointed out, slightly irritated. Her only response was a slight shrug of her delicate shoulders.

"Kami-sama forbid I don't."

_That would be terrifying_, he agreed dryly. Souji Okita downed the hot liquid in one go, trying fruitlessly to ignore the way heat seared around his tender chest. He was slumped against the wall, his body folded in on itself; exhausted, painful. Something thick foamed in his lungs and made every breath a rattle. It was blood, and now instead of deep, shaking coughs, every breath spluttered out bubbles of dark red that were steadily becoming less welcoming. He used to be covered in the goddamn colour when he was out disposing rogue ronin. Fate had humour, he admitted, to make him go down the way he lived. Like an old hero made epic; some eulogy to a fallen warrior.

Fantastic. Still dying though.

A change of color would be nice. Maybe green like this horrid, horrid tea. Or blue, hilarious as it would be. A change. Anything, anything at all. Purple, black? Warm brown, salmon pink? Rogue ronin to come bursting into this room, swords flashing showily by their stupid selves? An earthquake. A hurricane. A freaking yokai popping in front of him in a puff of smoke to offer a deal with the devil for, hmm— more time? Or maybe someone would finally come to visit; maybe Sanosuke would finally decide to drop the spear like he always wanted to and stop by, or maybe… Saitou, or even Chizuru—

"You _are _useless," Souji said, his tone mock horrified. He said it as if it was a realisation that had suddenly dawned on him. His only reward was a dry look and a blank stare.

He pouted. She was _no fun at all_.

Really, perhaps this was hell's way of a joke, but couldn't they have sent someone who was at least even remotely entertaining? Sometimes she could be teased. She whined and complained and maybe even bickered, but those periods were few and far between. It was like being accompanied by a person who was constantly moving in and out of a waking sleep.

Or being married. That thought was a little troubling.

Once again, curiosity overwhelmed his tongue and he asked, "Who are you?" Honestly, it was annoying, and mysteries made him edgy– no one likes living alone with a nameless _yūrei, _especially one who claimed that you knew her while she was still alive. Was that meant to make him sad?

The girl frowned. For one so cold, her dark hair was glossy, and her kimono lovely.

"You really haven't guessed?" she asked, a tiny bit displeased. For all his suffering, his body moved of its own accord and he shrugged, a wolfish grin stretching his mouth.

"Guess, guess, guess," he mocked. "You keep nagging at me to _guess_. You remind me of a lover under a tree, covering her boyfriend's eyes as she says 'guess who'? It's irritating." His tone turned teasing. "This isn't the reason why you're still here, right? Some wish carried over into death…" His mouth quirked into a grin. "To find a boyfriend?"

She opened her mouth.

Before snapping it shut.

"B-b- boy-f-f?" He blinked as her tone suddenly changed from blank to embarrassed. "To me too. You–" She huffed and crossed her arms, turning to the side. "Now I'm definitely never telling."

"Wh– Oi," he dragged lazily. "What– are you on your period or something?"

If ghosts could turn red, she would. Her eyes widened comically. "P-p-pe– _No. _I'm _dead–"_ And just as he was about to smirk and think, _She's kinda cute– _A shade seemed to pass over her eyes and...

She went silent and calm.

It was the abruptness of this situation that made him mull over a thought he'd been having recently, or rather a question. Mainly–

"What happened to you?" He asked seriously, but the girl merely sat deathly pale and unmoving, watching something to the side nonchalantly. He huffed tiredly and let the cup slip from his loose fingers to the floor, before his body followed and he laid down lazily against the hard wood, looking up into the blackness of the ceiling.

"I died," the girl answered after a pregnant pause, her voice so small that it nearly left him dumbfounded. To his surprise, she sounded bewildered byhis question; and Okita did not want to sit up to look at her face. Her expression would change, and right now, he just wanted her to be blank. Be part of the wall, the air, the scenery. A face to watch him until he fell asleep.

He thought about the Shinsengumi. Where were they now? No doubt still stuck in a deadlock against Choushuu, as Rasestu pounded against them one after the other. _Really_, what else could they be doing?

He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. His thoughts lingered to Chizuru before fleeing away as if repulsed. Okita huffed. Maybe it was true that dying made men greedier.

* * *

He put his foot flat against the stone surface as he slowly pulled the pail up. The inside of the well was deep and cool, and the shade above seemed intent on capsuling the humid, dark air. As he pulled himself out, the bright sun blazed down and heated his skin.

The girl was once again in the shade, where it hung above the well like a half-thought, half-finished construction. She was partially tangible in the bare shadow, with her long, thick hair streaming down her sides. If one looked, they could see her, but they would still have doubt. Humans have more trouble having faith in what they cannot see.

Perhaps it had something to do with fear.

The girl was clutching at the edge of the well, nose half-in and kneeling down like a child. Her head moved up; eyes riveted to the pail as Okita dragged it upwards and set it on the ground. She looked utterly fascinated by the scene, and Okita had to keep himself from quirking his mouth upwards, lest she complain.

With the first pail down, he reached for another. A mewl sounded to his right and he turned to see a scraggly little kitten sniffing at the girl's hair. It was spotted with orange, crawling onto a ledge and attempting to paw at the girl's straight hair. She frowned and edged away, but the kitten maintained its curiosity. Okita snorted and went back to his task.

Noon had morphed into afternoon when he heard a splash, and he raised his lazy head from the grass to look at her. The kitten seemed to have fallen into the pail, and was now struggling to stay afloat.

She prodded its head downwards, pushing it underwater.

He sighed and laid his head back. "So I take it that you don't like cats?" The kitten gurgled, its wailing mewls tinny as her slender finger poked its tiny face down. She frowned, her pale digit nonchalant and steady. "The kitten has no mother, no home. Why should it be left to live?"

He cracked open an eyelid. "Maybe because it still has a fighting chance."

The girl looked down at the small paws scraping the sides of the bucket, the sound fragile even to her own ears.

"Even a bad one?" She sounded like a child.

Okita groaned and turned to his side. _You've got to be kidding me… _"What do you think?"

The girl paused in her actions. She removed her finger, but the kitten was now weak in its attempts, and its small furry head soon sank beneath the water. She watched its black eyes glaze over, mouth open as its body bobbed on the surface. It didn't matter, in the end.

She looked up. "What would you have done, if you had been me?"

Okita snorted inwardly but didn't answer. He closed his eyes and pretended he had already fallen asleep.

* * *

It was raining, and while cold liquid drizzled down the wooden sides and pounded the earth, she slowly drew another blanket over his shaking form before withdrawing. He watched her with loathing— green eyes blazing, strangely bright with fever. He didn't need someone to hold his hand. He needed her to fuck off.

His sister had come by the other day, with her daughter in tow. His… niece made him smile sometimes, but Mitsu didn't. He did not hate his sister. He just couldn't stand strangers babysitting him.

"_Mitsu-san. It's been too long, ne? You've grown prettier." His words were brimming with liquid jaundice as he squinted his eyes. "Although you've grown fatter too. No doubt from little Tsuki-chan, huh?"_

_Mitsu had regarded him unsurely. In her eyes, she had done no wrong in leaving him behind, and so she faced only the awkwardness of reunion. To her, her brother was just acting weird, so she chose silence._

"_Here's your medicine." She handed the powder over to him, topping the cup in his hand. He had sighed dramatically then, looking into his cup. "Ne… Mitsu-san. I hope this is poison." He smiled after a moment of thought. _

"_It would taste better than your pity."_

Okita gave another choking cough, his spine arching away from his lungs. The rain continued streaking down and the chill was enough to numb his fingers to the bone. He shook, retched onto the floor. Lightning razed the sky and his hair glinted white. He wanted something, anything to rid him of this troublesome pain. An adrenaline shot, a—

"Oi, yūrei, can't you do something about this," he asked in annoyance between his fits. He wanted blood… he wanted it _warm _and fresh between his teeth… The girl's eyes merely swivelled to him and she replied in a bored fashion.

"No."

"You're a ghost," he complained, but the girl smiled softly and shook her head, choosing to answer with a non-answer.

"Why do people always seem to think that the dead have all the answers?"

He glared at her briefly, before his face scrunched up in pain as he withstood wave after wave of agony. Finally, he slumped against the futon tiredly, placing an arm over his eyes. "Well," he pointed out bluntly, "you know who _I _am, and some of the things I've done. So you were either a stalker while you were still alive, or you know things once you've kicked the bucket. Which one is it?"

The girl turned away and started humming. He groaned loudly and buried himself in his blankets.

Away from his view, a small smile lifted the sides of her lips while she watched the rain outside. It had been raining then too, when—

"_That's a peculiar expression on your face."_

_She had looked up, her face smeared with the cold rain. It made her feel better, knowing that now no one would know she had been—_

She frowned and turned her head to the side.

Audibly, the sound of porcelain scraping against porcelain came from the kitchen; followed by the echo of a carefully placed foot. She tilted her head to face Okita curiously. His eyes were closed, but he was very much awake.

His blade glinted dully in the corner, but its edge was no longer sharp.

The footsteps were muted, but they could be heard; and from that alone, the experience of the wannabe thief was whittled down to zero. You did not walk on ground in straw sandals and expect to stay silent. Bare feet were better, but neither helped in the house of a samurai.

Whoever it was crept into the room where Okita was slumbering. The person paused to take in the house's single occupant, his eyes glazing over the dark-haired girl blinking up at him.

A footstep forward. Then another. Eyes rifling the empty shelves. Another footstep.

And that was when, like an extremely exhausted ghoul, Souji Okita rose up from temporary death, walked casually to the young man's unprotected back and landed a well-aimed strike to his head, knocking the young man out.

Before he tumbled into his futon and back to sleep.

"You," the girl decided, "are incorrigible."

. . .

The young man had sable hair, and he woke up with a booming headache to the smell of mismatched ingredients boiling merrily in a broth. Okita himself was at the hearth, prodding unhappily at the contents. It was always broth these days, a stern recommendation by Dr Matsumoto.

Easy for him to say. He didn't have to face things bobbing up and down in soup. Or the coughing. Or the insomnia. Or the blood.

Or the guilt.

_And_ the ghost. (Especially the ghost.)

He turned to the girl sitting a distance away. As always, he could never really see her. Looking at her was like looking at a memory: all fuzzy and vague in-between. You knew she had dark hair, but your memory deteriorated when you tried to remember the particular way it fell. What you knew was what you saw, but as soon as you looked away— you forgot.

He swallowed. Memories were never accurate. They were gems that grew tarnished over time, the planes cloudy and the color watered down; yet, they would always be regarded as so: as precious treasure.

So perhaps that was why he didn't want to see her face as much. Everytime he tried to think of Chizuru, of Kondou-san, their faces slowly begin to resemble hers; a memory fading into the recesses of the mind. Elaborated, exaggerated, but not real, not genuine. What had always mattered was the right here and the right now, and now hurtled into an age not of him, he relished that more than any glorified memory.

So if he had the chance to turn back time, he would repeat every disappointment, every pain, and every inch of false hope to be with them once more. There is something excruciating in the presence of memory.

The young man shifted, and the girl looked up from the tea set she was cleaning and arranging. Okita had made a snarky little comment hours before, resounding with enough emotional blackmail for her to finally help around with _something_. The young man moaned and groggily sat up, his eyes blinking heavily. He jerked at the sight his eyes met, but Okita threw him a look steeled with hard warning.

"I have every right to kill you," he said matter-of-factly. Which was true: self-defense and everything. The young man recoiled and cast his eyes around wildly. He was alone with only the sick newcomer from Kyoto. His eyes landed on a sheathed sword in the far corner of the room. If he was fast enough he could-

"Don't even think about it," Okita said with grim amusement. The girl stilled her movements to watch him with interest. Okita put his ladle down and got up, retrieving his blade to the terror of the wannabe young burglar. Unhurriedly, he sat down cross-legged in front of the young man, with his sheathed blade on his lap. Truth be told, with everything that had been going on so far―

He unsheathed his blade and drew it out.

This young man just walked into the wrong house at the wrong time. Right at the hour between ten and eleven when Okita felt springy enough to slice somebody. Which― admittedly was all the time nowadays. _Really_, it was an open secret he was living here. What was the boy expecting? A fable?

"Are you going to kill him?" The girl asked what was already cemented in his mind. He threw her a wry look at the wall beside her.

"I have every right to kill intruders."

"True." She furrowed her brow. "But he's so young. It's probably his first time."

Okita paused in his actions and raised an eyebrow. "Are you asking me to give him a chance?" That was when the young man flinched and looked at the direction Okita was addressing. No one was there, which made him whimper. "Wh-what, who are you talking to?!" He demanded. Inwardly, he started to panic. This man was insane. He had heard the stories before: a half-demon stricken with consumption who used to be part of the Wolves of Mibu. And now he was here, with his blade at his throat, and talking to the wall…

Maybe he had gone delirious. _Shit!_

"No," the girl replied coolly. She hesitated. "I was just thinking…"

"Thinking what," Okita snapped impatiently, while edging the blade towards the young man. "Quiet, I'm deciding whether to kill you," he said sharply to the cowering figure. The young man gulped and slowly inched away. In the firelight, his eyes glinted a dull amber, and Okita couldn't help but be stricken with memory at the contours of his angular face, or the messiness of the thick sable hair. He-

The girl tilted her head, not missing anything. "He reminds you of somebody."

His grip on the handle tightened. Yes. Yes, he did. _Ibuki Ryunosuke_. A hazardous risk to the Shinsengumi, a rude whelp, an inexperienced moron, a-

Someone who had a chance.

He never pondered on why he did it, sparing his life. A good friend or not, he still posed some risk to the Shinsengumi, and by extension, Kondou-san himself. So why did he do it then?

Perhaps the reason why he never pondered was because he already knew his answer, and just like that, Souji Okita found himself facing the very same choice he faced that day.

"So…" Her voice behind him trailed off. "What do you think?"

He snorted mirthlessly and shrugged. _What do I think indeed? _"What would you do, if you were me?"

The boy swallowed noisily. In the dark, the man's face deep in thought looked not unlike the images of demons from old temple paintings; dark, vivid eyes, and an expression that was razor sharp and deadly. Not barbaric, but cunning, thinking. As if a hurricane was whirling beneath a mask, he gave off the intensity of something violent shuttered in.

As he raised his blade, a thought flitted across Okita's mind.

_Does it really matter?_

_..._

Birds chirped somewhere in the misty morning. The girl sat in her polite manner as usual, watching over his sleep. She rarely blinked, but when she did, her eyes closed in alternate fashion, like some eerie mockery of a reflex the living took for granted.

And they take much for granted. So that was their own mutual price both sides paid, the living and the dead: regret.

It was the only currency that gripped strong enough to survive the trip to the other side. Regret towards the end of their life, and even after it; then that was perhaps what living was then: an accumulation of years and experiences that churned and solidified into that sense of loss. That loss of time, that loss of memory.

That loss of chances.

So you lived up your years for the sake of missing them. A paradox of being born to die. Even if you invested in some meaning, would that not make parting harder?

…

She closed her eyes.

_There was a songbird in that house. And another. And another. And another. And another. They were all songbirds, all sparrows. She would smile as the men filed in one by one. She would twirl her fans, open her mouth, smile at them, and laugh when they wanted her to. She was pretty._

_They were all pretty. Sometimes, if they were still enough, you could not differentiate the ichimatsu dolls from their painted, smiling faces; with ivory pins in their hair that did not belong to them, and colourful kimonos that did not belong to them._

_The son of a lord visited once. He had talked about acquiring a particularly expensive piece of pretty furniture. He had been very proud. The furniture had been worth a lot of money. He told them the price, and she had nodded, smiling. It was worth a lot of money. _

_Worth more than she, even._

_But still, on a rainy day―_

"_That's a peculiar expression on your face."_

* * *

_This chapter was partially inspired by Seamus Heanley's '__**The Early Purges'**__. _

_This story… isn't meant to be sad, or bitter. It's meant to be… quiet, I suppose. And reflective. I didn't want to make this into a tragedy that preached. I was just curious how death in the present felt like. Not the death from chances; like crossing the road at the wrong light, or entering the wrong room at the wrong time. Not the 'I'll be dead in 50 years' kind either. That's why this is an experimental story XD_

_Oh right. Here's a recommendation you should definitely read. I wasn't able to fully enjoy it because I was in a hurry but it. made. me. cry. _

**Ikiro **by Calenlass Greenleaf.


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